


Words Just Get in the Way

by somethingnerdythiswaycomes



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, First Meetings, Lit Major AU, M/M, Meet-Cute, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-10 13:15:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12299874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somethingnerdythiswaycomes/pseuds/somethingnerdythiswaycomes
Summary: “You’re pretty gone on him, huh?” Mike asks him.  Andre nods.  “And you don’t know anything about him?” Andre nods again, glumly.“This is the semester,” Mike proclaims with enough conviction that Andre almost believes him. “This semester, you’re getting him.”





	Words Just Get in the Way

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rave](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rave/gifts).



“So tell me again about this guy you’re stalking?” Mike asks as they’re waiting for their traditional pre-Tuesday morning class latte.

“I’m not stalking him,” Andre mutters, shooting a furtive glance around them.  The Dav is crowded, just as it always is at 10 in the morning; who knows who could be listening?

“That’s not what Tom says.”

“Tom’s a liar.”

Mike rolls his eyes.  “So tell me again about this guy you keep running into?”

Andre huffs.  “That’s more like it.  I don’t try to find him, he just keeps being where I have to be.”

Like crossing the quad from Mary Graydon to Ward at the same time as him, or waiting in line for coffee at the same time as him, or standing at the light to cross Massachusetts Ave at the same time as him.  And he always looks good, with his neatly trimmed beard, and long-ish hair, and the effortless combination of neutral-tone denim and cotton that somehow looks amazing on him.

“Do you know his name?”

Andre shoots him an unimpressed look.

“So, no?”

“No,” Andre mutters.  “We only just see each other.  I’m never right behind him in line, or stealing his wallet or anything.”

“You could steal his wallet,” Mike tells him.  “Like, take a look at his ID and then pretend he dropped it, and give it back to him.  It’d be an excuse to talk to him, and he’d think you’re a nice guy.”

“No,” Andre says firmly.  “Is that how you got Tom to date you?”

Mike ducks his head and smiles, and Andre’s heard the story about how they got together enough times that he doesn’t need Mike to say, “Yeah, no, maybe you shouldn’t do that, then.”

Andre shoots him a fond glance, and grabs their lattes as they’re placed up on the bar.  Mike’s got a romantic heart he wears on his sleeve, and even when Andre’s frustratingly single, it’s still nice to see the little flush on Mike’s cheeks when he thinks about Tom.

They’re also both English majors – Andre in Literature, and Mike in Creative Writing – so he supposes a little bit of that spirit comes with the territory.

“It’s Victorian Novels today, isn’t it?” Andre asks as they head out onto the quad.  Mike pulls up a note on his phone and nods.  “That’ll be… fun.”

“Lots of reading,” Andre sighs.  “But it’s nice to have a class with you again.”

Mike grins and knocks his shoulder into Andre’s, and when Andre shoves him back, he glances over Mike’s shoulder and –

“Shit, there he is,” Andre squeaks.  Mike turns to look; Andre yelps and grabs his arm.

“He’s pretty cute,” Mike observes, studying the guy sitting on the short stone wall outside the Dav with a book in his lap and a coffee at his hip.

“Yeah,” Andre replies absentmindedly.

“Reading, too.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re pretty gone on him, huh?” Mike asks him.  Andre nods.  “And you don’t know _anything_ about him?” Andre nods again, glumly.

“This is the semester,” Mike proclaims.  “This semester, you’re getting him.”

 

.oOo.

 

“Did Tom tell you the plan yet?” Mike asks as soon as he gets in the door to their apartment.

Andre pauses with his spoonful of ice cream halfway to his mouth.  “Uh – the plan?”

Mike ducks into the hall to bang on the door to his and Tom’s room.  “Tom!  We need to tell Andre the plan!”

Tom emerges in a pair of low-slung sweatpants, scratching at his bare stomach. “What’s up, babe?”

Mike rolls his eyes and marches back into the living room.  “The plan,” he says again, taking the pint of ice cream from Andre and putting it back in the freezer.

“I was eating that!” Andre protests.

“The plan!” Tom announces, dropping down on the couch next to Andre.  “We’re getting you your guy!”

“Oh God,” Andre groans, curling over the arm of the couch and burying his face in a pillow.  “Please no.”

“No, it’s actually a good plan!” Tom protests.  He tries to pull Andre back up by his shoulders, but Andre defiantly curls in tighter.

“Andre, stop being a baby about this.”  Mike drops an ice cube on the back of his neck, and he jerks up to glare at Mike.  “Going after what you want, right?”

“Right,” Andre sighs.  “All right.  Plan?”

“One, find out his name.  Two, have a conversation.  Three, get him to fuck you in the ass.”

“Tom!” Mike slaps him on the back of his head.  “That’s not the plan!”

“I mean, it’s basically the plan.”

“The plan,” Mike says, as if Tom hadn’t said anything, “is to start making contact with him. Smiles, moving a little closer.  Eventually introduce yourself when the opportunity presents itself – you’re both waiting for your coffee, you’re in the elevator together, whatever.  Keep talking to him.  Find out his name.  Find him on social media.  Invite him to something.”

“Then get him to fuck you up the ass.”

Andre thinks over Mike’s plan, and nods slowly.  “That actually sounds… possible.”

“He’s in,” Mike cheers, high-fiving Tom.  “Now we’ve just gotta make sure you look hot every day.”

“Why?”

“You never know when you’ll run into him,” Tom reasons.  “Like, you’re cute, but sophomore cute, y’know?”

“No, I don’t know,” Andre replies flatly.

“The curls, your mouth—”

“My mouth?”

“—Your twinky body—”

“ _Twinky body?!_ ”

“Okay, I think he gets it,” Mike interrupts.  “But Cutie’s like… post-grad hot.”

“Shit, do you think he’s a grad student?” Tom asks.

The blood drains from Andre’s face.  “Oh my god.  What if he’s a _professor_?”

“Hot, smart, good job,” Tom reasons.  “Fuckin’ get it, man.”

“Focus.” Mike snaps his fingers in front of Andre’s face.

“Right, focus.”  Andre scrubs his hand over his face.  “Right, look good, smile, get close to him.  I can do that.”

“Of course you can,” Mike tells him, bracing his hands on Andre’s shoulders.  “You got this, dude.  He’d be stupid not to try and chase you down.”

“Thanks,” Andre replies, smiling up at him.  “Let’s hope so, right?”

Suddenly, Tom tugs Andre’s shirt up and over his head – or tries to, until it gets stuck around his armpits and just covers his face instead.

“Shirtless cuddle and movie time!” Tom crows, pinning Andre to the couch until he could get the shirt over his flailing arms.

“I think we’re gonna need to stop doing those when the new roommate moves in,” Mike notes, but dutifully pulls of his shirt and drops down next to Tom on the couch.

“Nah, we’ll just invite him,” Tom replies.  “Or we’ll just do them in our room.”

“Gross,” Andre says, curling under Tom’s arm and making himself comfortable.

It’s a tradition for Thursday nights in the Latta-Wilson-Burakovsky household – soon to be Latta-Wilson-Burakovsky-Schmidt household – even if they only watch _Titanic_ half the time.

“We’ll have to get Cutie to join in, too,” Mike says.

“Or Andre will do special-shirtless cuddle time in _his_ room with—”

“Movie time!” Andre says loudly, swiping the remote and cueing _Titanic_ up on Netflix.  Tom falls silent as the movie starts, and the three of them settle in for their usual bonding time.

Andre can’t help wondering what their new roommate will think of this, if he’ll be weirded out or judge them or join in, and then, of course, what Cutie would think of it.  But soon enough the movie draws him in, and he forgets about Cutie – just for a couple hours.

 

.oOo.

 

“Andre,” Tom snaps into the phone as soon as Andre picks up.

“What,” Andre replies flatly, juggling his textbook and phone in one hand as he puts his wallet away.

“Cutie’s in MGC, move fast!”

Andre hangs up on Tom and bolts out the door, narrowly missing dropping his expensive Lit Theory reader in a puddle.  The Mary Graydon Center is pretty much just across the quad, so it’s a quick jog across the footpath and up the steps, a moment to take a deep breath and brush back his hair, and then he steps into the building.

As promised, Cutie is leaning against one of the pillars in the main entryway, backpack hanging off of one shoulder and his phone in his hand.  He’s wearing those green pants, and a black t-shirt, and that denim shirt that pulls over his shoulders that might be Andre’s favorite.

Cutie looks up as Andre brushes past him and flashes him a quick smile.  Andre smiles back and continues on to Tom, who’s standing off to the side, and doesn’t look back _doesn’t look back_.

“Smooth,” Tom tells him with a smirk when Andre reaches him, and in the process of leaning against the wall next to Tom, sneaks a glance back to Cutie.

“I’m super smooth,” Andre replies absently.

“Yeah, yeah, sure.” Tom pushed away from the wall.  “Ready for dinner?”

“Lead the way,” Andre tells him; Tom picks the dining hall, and the two of them head down the stairs and get in line for their food.

There’s not a huge crowd in the dining hall; it’s a matter of minutes for the both of them to get dinner and sit down at a table close to the entrance.

“You figure your whole schedule out?”

“Pretty much,” Andre replies.  “I mean, there’s only so many options, and everything’s pretty much filled by now.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tom says.  As a biology major, Tom’s got to take all these specific classes in a specific order, so his schedule for every semester’s been set since he declared his major halfway through freshman year.  Andre’s literature major has less of a strict setup, but there are fewer classes each semester that fulfill his requirements.

“The crown jewel of this schedule,” Tom adds, pulling out his planner for emphasis, “Is getting into Intro to Creative Writing for my Area 1 gen-ed.”

“For your arts requirement you could have chosen literally anything, _literally ‘music appreciation,’_ and you chose creative writing?” Andre asks.  “I’m pretty sure I told you last year how much work that class actually is.”

“Oh yeah, and what’s your best class this semester, huh?”

“Creative non-fiction,” Andre replies proudly.  “Offered irregularly, so everyone wants it, and only 12 seats.”

“Okay, that’s actually good,” Tom admits.  “Fuck.”

“It’s the best I can hope for as a lowly Literature sophomore,” Andre declares, while Tom rolls his eyes.

Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, Andre spots a familiar denim shirt, and before he registers it he turns to look and –

“Be cool, be cool,” Andre hisses, ducking his head over his plate.  “Cutie’s over there.”

“Over where?” Tom asks, craning his neck to look back over by the hot food line, where Andre had spotted him.

“ _I said be cool!”_

Tom waved at someone – someone who knew Tom if the answering grin and wave was anything to go by – and turned back to Andre.  “He wouldn’t suspect a thing, dude.  You need to chill out.”

“I’ll chill out when he’s sitting somewhere across the dining hall,” Andre mutters.

And then – oh fuck – Cutie sits at the table right behind Andre.  Before he’s consumed by complete embarrassment and anxiety, Andre takes a moment to be thankful he’s not sitting at the table behind Tom, where Andre wouldn’t be able to stop himself from staring at the back of his head.

Andre’s phone buzzes.

_Tommy boy (1:45PM): he’s reading a book dude is he eating alone??_

_Tommy boy (1:45PM): maybe u should go sit with him_

“Stop it,” Andre hisses.

Tom raises an eyebrow and types something else.  Andre’s phone buzzes again.

_Tommy boy (1:46PM): ask him what book he’s reading_

Andre flips his phone over and ignores it as it keeps buzzing, again, and again, and again.

“Will you quit it?” Andre asks lowly, leaning over his meatloaf.

“Make me,” Tom whispers, then says loudly, “I don’t know, man, maybe you should look online for some condoms big enough for your magnum dong.”

Andre flushes bright red as a couple people passing by look at him.

“Tom,” Andre whines.  “Why.”

“You’ll thank me one day,” Tom whispers, then continues, loudly, “Make sure you eat all that meat, so you have some energy for your _sex marathon_ tonight with your _super hot date_!”

Andre just curls over his plate and sets about eating his meatloaf with complete focus.  And then the green beans.  And then the potatoes. Tom, thankfully, leaves him alone, just tossing out random thoughts on some tv show he’s been watching between mouthfuls of burger.

When they get up to leave, Cutie is still sitting at the table behind them, half a sandwich forgotten on his plate for whatever book it is he’s reading.  Andre tries to catch a glimpse of the cover – _Dept. of Speculation_ , he thinks, which he had to read for a class last semester and turned out to be one of his favorite books – just as Cutie looks up at just the right time for them to lock eyes.

Andre glances away quickly, and follows Tom out of the dining hall.

 

.oOo.

 

“Welcome to Creative Non-fiction,” their professor says as he bounds into the room and drops a thick stack of books on the desk at the front of the room.  Andre glances at the time on his phone; the professor’s a few minutes late, which is definitely not the norm for the literature department.  “Everyone’s in the right place?  I’ll close my eyes so you don’t have to be embarrassed about getting up and leaving.”

The professor actually puts his hand over his eyes, waits for a few minutes, then uncovers them, his blue eyes twinkling.  “All right, all right, I guess upperclassmen are better at finding classes than freshman, right?”

The door opens, then, and Andre’s tempted to turn around to see who it is, but then the professor speaks again. “Or maybe not!  Four years at this school and you can’t find the room?”

“Just read the schedule wrong,” whoever it is replies, and Andre nearly shivers at the smoothness of that voice, the gravelly undertone…

“We’ve already started, hurry up and take a seat,” The professor says, and shakes his greying hair out of his eyes.

The chair on Andre’s right is pulled out, and Andre glances over out of the corner of his eye.  His gaze lands on a strong hand, freckled, with a bracelet of thin leather straps around the waist.  A denim shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbow, and he looks up, and –

Andre flushes and faces forward again.  _Oh shit_ , he thinks, trying to keep the panic welling up in his chest from exploding onto his face.

“Hope you weren’t saving this for someone,” Cutie says as he settles in the chair with his backpack at his feet.

Andre shakes his head, and it saved from any other response by the professor clearing his throat and announcing, “I think I’ve only had half of you already.  My name is Alex – I teach a lot of the upper-level creative writing classes.  Now, we’ll all get to know each other as we write and read throughout the semester, so we’ll just go around and say your name and year.”

Andre’s eyes widen.  He’s going to get his name?!  After all the planning and scheming, this is how it’s going to happen?

They start on the opposite side of the room, of course, and Andre clenches his hand into a fist on his thigh just to keep from jiggling his leg or tapping his pen.

Finally, it’s Andre’s turn.  As everyone turns their eyes to him, he clears his throat and says.  “I’m Andre.  I’m a sophomore.”

“Little baby!” Alex exclaims.  A couple of the other students chuckle; most of them have been seniors so far, with a couple of juniors, but no one else in Andre’s year.

“I’m Braden,” Cutie says before Andre can start getting too self-conscious.  “Senior.”

 _That would explain why we never had classes or anything together_ , Andre thinks, and then immediately, _I know his name!_

Andre’s pretty sure that, if questioned, he wouldn’t be able to understand a single other person’s name in that class.  But Alex moves on, and starting reviewing the syllabus and telling them about the projects they’ll be required to complete, and the books they’ll be reading throughout the semester.  Andre takes notes, because he knows he’s not going to remember any of it later.  All he’ll be able to remember is Braden’s arm resting on the table an inch from his, and the smell of Braden’s deodorant or detergent or _him_ , and how much he wished that no one else was in this room except for the two of them.

In the end, Alex lets them out early, and Andre is filled with a mix of excitement and dread and worry, and it gets both better and worse when Braden pauses on his way out and says, “See you next time.”

Andre swallows nervously and packs up his things, waving goodbye to Alex as he leaves the room.  Braden’s already going into the stairwell, so Andre doesn’t feel too bad about taking out his phone and dialing Mike’s number.

“‘Sup?” Mike answers.

“He’s in my class,” Andre hisses, cupping his hand around his phone as if that will keep anyone nearby from hearing.

“What?  Who – _oh fuck!_ ”

“Yeah!”

“Cutie’s in your class!  So – wait – did you get a name?!”

Andre glances furtively around.  “Braden.”

“Hmm.”

“What?”

“I feel like I’ve heard about him, but I don’t remember where from.”

“That’s not helpful,” Andre says flatly, starting to walk down the hall.  He’s got a free block next, so he doesn’t really need to rush anywhere.

“I didn’t say it would be.”

Andre sighs, and remembers Cutie – _Braden_ – sitting in class next to him, and a grin creeps onto his face.

 

.oOo.

 

“All right,” Tom says, cracking his fingers over the keyboard of his laptop.  Mike’s pressed in against him on one side, Andrew squeezed in on the other.  They logged into Andre’s blackboard account, Tom clicking quickly to the roster section of his creative non-fiction class.

“His name’s Braden,” Andre says quietly.  Tom clicks through to the full roster.

The three of them scan the list.  And then again.

“He’s not there.”  Mike scratches his cheek, quickly reading it again.

“It could be his middle name?” Tom suggests.

“That doesn’t help me,” Andre whines, dropping his forehead to Tom’s bare shoulder.

The door to the apartment opens with a creak; Nate takes two steps in and drops his backpack next to the door before cocking an eyebrow at them.

“It’s shirtless cuddle time,” Mike explains.

Nate pauses, then shrugs.  “Sure.”

“Wanna join?” Andre offers, kicking the pillow next to him on the couch onto the floor.

“Sure,” Nate replies again, tugging his t-shirt over his head as he walks over to the couch.  He settles down next to Andre; not snuggling in as much as the other three are, but for his first time, it’s a lot more than Andre was expecting.

He wonders if, maybe, Braden would be okay with joining too.  If he’d laugh at them, a little, but whip off his shirt – Andre secretly likes to imagine he’s a little hairy, maybe because Andre himself has nothing but a smattering of chest hair – and pile in, too, and hold Andre’s hand when he gets a little teary-eyed by that one elderly couple in _Titanic_.

“You guys checking your rosters?” Nate asks when he sees the screen up on Tom’s computer.

“Just Andre’s,” Tom replies.

“Is there… a reason for that?”

“We’re trying to find this guy he likes.”

And then Andre has to explain the whole thing, and it’s only a lot more embarrassing to have to explain it to someone outside of his two best friends.

“Wait, his name is Braden?  Lit major?”

“Yeah,” Andre replies slowly.

“I think I know him.”  Nate whips his phone out of pocket and pulls up Facebook.

“Dude, why didn’t we try _Facebook?_ ” Mike whispers.

“Well, he isn’t in my friends list,” Nate says.  “Maybe I’m thinking of someone else.  Maybe he doesn’t have Facebook.”

Andre groans and throws his head back against the sofa.  “I’m never going to find him.”

“Well, you’ll see him in class, right?”

“I mean, yeah,” Andre mutters.  “But what would I talk to him about?”

“As someone that has really only known you for a week,” Nate starts, “I’m being honest when I say that you are an interesting person, and you have plenty to talk about with anyone.”

Andre flushes red.  “Thanks.”

“What so you’ll believe him, but not us?” Tom huffs.

“I mean,” Andre starts, and pauses.  “It’s different from someone you haven’t known for three years?  Of course you think I have something to offer someone.  But trying to convince someone of that from scratch?  Like going out on a date and trying to convince them that you’re worth a second one?”

“At least you can do some of that work in your class, I guess?” Mike says. “That takes some of the pressure off.  You just have to be yourself in that class, and write as well as you normally do, and you’ll impress him and show him how smart you are, and then when you get to a date you already have a starting point.”

“Yeah.  Yeah, that makes sense.”

“So, no online research,” Tom declares, snapping his laptop shut and shoving it into Mike’s lap.  “Movie time.”

 

.oOo.

 

“Andre,” Professor Backstrom starts, folding his hands in his lap as he swivels his chair to face Andre.

“Yes?”

Andre isn’t sure why he’s here.  He doesn’t even have a class with Professor Backstrom this semester.  But he got an email last night asking if he could come see him during his office hours today, so Andre went.  They had a good relationship when Andre was in his Literary Theory class last year, so he didn’t _think_ this was about anything bad.

“You know I’m running the Literature Colloquium this year.”

Andre nods.  He remembers when the flyers had gone up the first week of the semester, along with the book choice for this year: _Dept. of Speculation_ , which they’d read for their Lit Theory’s final paper last year.  It’d be a day in a few weeks of panel discussions with professors, grad students, and some undergrads.

“Based on your exceptional final paper last semester, I would like you to participate this year.”

Andre blanches.  Sharing a paper in front of that many people?  Reading it out loud and having to answer questions on it?  In front of his professors and classmates?

“I don’t know if I can do that, Professor Backstrom.”

“Andre,” Professor Backstrom replies kindly.  “I think we can be on a first name basis, now.”

Andre flushes and nods.  Especially after breaking down in Prof – Nicklas’s office hours last year about their final paper, when he wound up sharing way more about his personal life than he needed to.  Especially after Nicklas had first asked quietly if a hug would be appropriate, and when Andre said yes, hugged him tight and told him everything would work out, everything would be all right, because Nicklas had gone through the same things.

“Nicklas, it’s… a lot.  You know I don’t do well in presentations.”

“It’s not a presentation,” Nicklas corrects him.  “You don’t have powerpoints, or notecards you have to get notes off of.  You just write a paper, and you read it; I know you’re capable of both.”

“But it’s with _professors_ and _grad students_.”

Nicklas waves his hand dismissively.  “Alex is one of those professors.  You don’t need to be intimidated by them.”

Andre could see what he meant.  Alex obviously had a great amount of writing skill, and a huge amount of knowledge and experience in the literature field, but at times he came off more as a puppy that had somehow acquired an MFA in creative writing and a PhD in literary criticism and theory.

“I’m out of excuses, aren’t I?” Andre asks ruefully.

“Unless you truly don’t want to do it,” Nicklas tells him.  “If you don’t want to, I won’t push you.  But it would be a great opportunity for you, and allow you to practice for thesis day next year.”

Andre freezes.  He’s had nightmares about thesis day, about reading his thesis out to all of his professors and classmates and anyone else who wants to come, and answering questions about it, and having to know enough about it to be able to answer those questions in the first place.

“Practice is a good idea,” he replies faintly.

“You’ve already read the book.  Just read it again, and think about the angle you’d like to approach it from.  That essay on the form last semester was amazing – I think just narrowing it down to a few specific examples would be great for you as a starting point.”

“Thanks,” Andre says, looking down at his knees.  “For trusting me with this, and everything.”

“You make it easy to trust you,” Nicklas replies.  “I am not doing anything that you and your knowledge are not encouraging.”

Andre grins briefly, and nods.  “Okay.  First proofs are due when?”

“10 days,” Nicklas replies.  “Just a thesis and outline.”

That’s doable.  That’s more than doable.  Andre can handle that.

Andre’s eye caught on the clock on Nicklas’s desk.  “I should get going to my next class.”

“All right.  And remember, Andre, my door is always open.  For anything you need.”

Andre nods quickly and smiles as he stands.  “Thank you, Nicklas.  I’ll be back with my outline when it’s ready.”

He walks out of Nicklas’s office feeling lighter than he has in days, only to stop short a couple of steps down the hall when he sees Braden sitting on the bench there.

“Ah, Braden, come on in,” Nicklas says from behind him.  Andre pretends to be checking for his phone as Braden stands, grabs his bag, and brushes past Andre to get to Nicklas’s office.

“I’ve got the first draft of my outline already,” Braden says in his deep, smooth voice, before the door shuts and Andre can’t hear anything.

Andre has to close his eyes for a second to pull himself together, and be completely sure he’s not going to be some weirdo trying to eavesdrop on office hours, before he remembers he has class across campus in 10 minutes and starts walking.

 

.oOo.

 

“All right,” Alex says to start class, clapping his hands at the front of the room.  “Who here is in the Lit Colloquium this year?”

No one raises their hand for a second until, sheepishly, Andre raises his.

“Only one!” Alex crows.  “Look at all you upperclassmen, little sophomore out-performing all of you.”

Andre blushes beet red and drops his hand.

Just then, _of course_ , Braden steps into the room – just a minute or two late, as usual.

“Braden, you writing for the colloquium?”

“Oh, yeah,” Braden replies as he drops into the seat next to Andre.

Maybe Andre purposefully sits next to the door every class.  Maybe he purposefully leaves his bag and laptop in the seat next to him until just before class is about to start.  Maybe he’s gotten used to accidentally brushing against Braden and smelling his shampoo or aftershave or _whatever_ and he doesn’t want to let it go.

Maybe sometimes Braden brings a bag of M & M’s to class and offers a couple to Andre.

“Only two,” Alex sighs, sweeping around the U of tables to put a hand each on Andre and Braden’s shoulders.

“You as well?” Braden asks, looking over at Andre.

Andre nods, too embarrassed to say anything.

Braden smiles then, and says, “Cool,” and Andre nearly combusts.

“Did you get your session assignment yet?” Braden asks, but before Andre can gather his wits to answer, Alex glides back up to the front of the room and starts class.

Braden’s still got his eyes on Andre, and Andre couldn’t look away if he tried, so Andre just nods.

Braden diverts his attention to Alex as he starts talking about the assignment they have due next Friday.  Andre lets out a breath and turns back to the front of the room.

A second later, Braden nudges Andre with his elbow.  Andre glances over, and Braden directs him to the corner of the notebook Braden’s writing in.

_Which session?_

Andre licks his lips nervously, and scribbles in the corner of his own notebook.

_Two.  You?_

Braden grins.

_Three._

He continues writing, something a little bit longer.

_Want to stay for each other’s for support?_

Andre can’t believe this is happening.  His hand shakes as he writes.

_Definitely!_

He hopes that doesn’t come off as too eager.

_Sounds like a plan.  I did it last year too, if you need any help let me know._

This is it.  This is his chance.  He can –

“Passing notes like little middle schoolers,” Alex coos, suddenly looming over them.  “I guess there are things more important than 20% of your grade?”

Andre hunches his shoulders, quickly scribbling out what he was writing to Braden.

“It was my fault,” Braden says easily.  “Won’t happen again.”

Alex just hums and continues going over the requirements for their assignment, and the reflection paper to go along with it.

The rest of the class passes in more-or-less of a blur.  They’re not into workshopping yet, so it’s a little too easy to fade in and out of what Alex is talking about.

Finally, class ends, and Andre starts packing up his books.

“Sorry about that,” Braden leans over to say.  “He usually doesn’t care about things like that.”

“No problem,” Andre replies, flashing him a quick smile.  “You wouldn’t know.”

“What were you about to write, then?”

It’s a lot harder to say it to his face than to write it on a scrap of paper, but before he can think about it too hard, Andre blurts out, “Would you like to compare and talk over our first proofs?”

Braden smiles easily, which is pretty much the only thing stopping Andre from spontaneously combusting.  “Yeah, that sounds like a great idea.  If we’re not in the same session, our theses can’t be so similar we’d start going in the same direction because of it.”

“I’m free Thursday after 4:30?” Andre suggests hopefully.

“Me too,” Braden replies.  “The Dav should be pretty quiet by then.”

“Sounds good!”

“Yeah,” Braden says.  “If you need to reschedule or anything, just hit me up on Facebook.”

Andre’s about to ask what his name is on there, finally solve this mystery, when Braden continues: “Well, I’ve got another class now, but I’ll see you Thursday?”

“Yeah,” Andre replies breathlessly, and then Braden walks away.  Andre watches him for a second, then decides that’s a little _too_ creepy, and heads the other direction for no reason other than to get his head back on straight.

 

.oOo.

 

“Andre!” Mike shouts, bursting intro Andre and Nate’s room at two AM that Thursday.

“What?” Andre replies, muffled by the blanket pulled up over his head.

“Andre, I know where I know him from!”

“Know who from?”

“ _Braden!_ I remembered!”

Andre sits straight up in bed.  “You do?  Where?”

“Last year’s colloquium!”  Mike drops onto the foot of Andre’s bed, quickly pulling his phone out of his pocket.  “You said he did it before, right?  And with all the promotions for this year’s colloquium, they’ve been posting stuff about the past ones, and they did a whole thing on last year’s, and he wrote a paper for it!”

“What did he write?!”

“‘No Way Out: Rebellion as Self-oppression in _Citizen_ ,’ by Braden Holtby.”

“That must be where I knew him from,” Nate adds from across the room.  “I did a paper for last year’s, too.”

“And, dude, he was like, super eloquent.  He held his own against the professors, and was way better than the other students in his session, even the grad students.”

Andre bit his lip.  That’s intimidating, but also strangely attractive.

“And,” Mike continues, “I found him on Facebook.”

Mike holds out his phone to Andre, and Andre glances at it just long enough to see the profile picture, Braden in that denim shirt lounging back on the quad with a wide smile on his face, before he looked away.

“I don’t want to read it,” he says.

“Dude,” Mike starts.  “You’ve been looking for his Facebook for _months_.”

“I know,” Andre admits, “But I’m going to see him tomorrow, outside of class, and I don’t want to blurt out something I’d only know if I read his profile, or make it weird, or anything.  We’re starting on an even playing field.”

“All right,” Mike concedes, patting Andre’s cheek.  “Go back to sleep.  Rest up for your _date_.”

“It’s not a date,” Andre grumbles, but he does pull the blanket back up to his chin and try to get back into a comfortable position.

“That’s a smart move,” Nate says from across the room.  “If you’re gonna get to know him, you should get to know _him_ , not his profile, right?”

“Right,” Andre says softly.  “I don’t want to, like, mention that I saw that it was his mom’s birthday last week or something.”

Nate snorts.  “Yeah, yeah, definitely.  You just gotta be yourself.”

Andre hums.

 _Easier said than done_.

 

.oOo.

 

It’s 4:45, and Braden still isn’t there.

Andre almost wishes he hadn’t wussed out about looking at his profile, because then at least he’d know how to spell Braden’s name and he could find him on Facebook and send him a message asking where he was.

As it were – Andre was posted up in the most coveted corner spot in the Dav, where there were outlets and a window and the non-wobbly table, with plenty of space for them to spread out their papers.

Suddenly the door bursts open, and Braden hurries in.  Andre’s too surprised to say anything; until Braden spots him and heads over, Andre just stares at him with wide eyes.

“Sorry I’m late,” Braden says, dropping his bag into the bench seat next to Andre. “My last class ran long, and Professor Backstrom wound up having some questions for me about the colloquium.”

“No problem,” Andre replies automatically.  “I know how Nic – Professor Backstrom is.”

“He has you on the whole first name thing, too?”

Andre smiles shyly.  “Yeah.  It’s still hard to get used to.”

Braden chuckles.  “Yeah, it really is.  Anyway, I was going to try to send you a message, but I realized I didn’t have your email or anything.”

“It’s in the class roster,” Andre tells him.

Braden, unexpectedly, blushes.  Andre stares at him in fascination.

“I’m, uh, not technically registered for that class.”

“What?”

“I filled up all my credits with my necessary classes for graduation, but I didn’t have the chance to take Creative Non-fiction before, and I’ve been _dying_ to take it, so I put it in my schedule for add/drop and then dropped it.  Alex and I worked out an, uh, ‘unofficial audit’ for me.”

“So you’re just doing all this work for no credit because you wanted to take this class so badly?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”  Braden cuts a sidelong glance at him.  “There were some other perks, too.”

Andre blushes.  Braden couldn’t mean…?

“Anyway,” Braden continues, before Andre decides how he’s going to react.  “Thank you for waiting for me.  Do you want to trade papers now?”

Andre hands his copy over to Braden, and accepts Braden’s paper.

They read in relative silence, and Braden’s is – it’s _amazing_.  It’s an angle Andre wouldn’t have thought to approach it from, a whole different perspective on how one disconnected thread of the story keeps popping up and what it means.  It’s _brilliant_ , and Andre’s sure that his couldn’t possibly be this good, couldn’t be anything close to what he’s reading.

He finishes marking up Braden’s copy – mostly some phrasing, a couple of points that need clarifying – about the same time Braden finishes with his.

“What do you think?” Andre asks shyly.

“It’s awesome,” Braden tells him, a wide smile on his face.  “You really get into the heart of the structure’s meaning, how the form complements the content and makes it make sense, and enriches the whole story.  I’m not really a structure guy, as you could probably tell, and this is just… brilliant.”

“I thought the same of yours,” Andre replies excitedly.  “I couldn’t believe how well you could follow that one small thread through the novel, it’s a totally different approach I never thought of.”

Braden’s cheeks redden, at that, and Andre’s stomach erupts in butterflies.

They talk excitedly about their papers, and about the assignments they’re working on for Alex’s class, until they wind up both taking out their computers and emailing each other their work so they can compare those, too.

Finally, Andre tries to take a sip of his coffee and realize it’s ice cold.

“I think we’ve been here a long time,” Andre says ruefully.

Braden glances out the window.  “Yeah, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t dark outside when I got here.”

Andre looks up, too; it’s pitch black outside, just the streetlights on the campus walkways breaking through the darkness.

“I think maybe we should call it for tonight,” Braden says, stretching his arms over his head.  They pack up their things, and head together out the door to the quad.

“We should do this again,” Braden says.

Andre can’t get a read on the expression on his face, not in the dim light, but he replies, “Yeah, definitely.”

Braden smiles at him, his eyes soft, and brushes his thumb against the curve of Andre’s cheekbone.

“You had something there,” Braden says.

It feels like there’s a bubble around the two of them, just the two of them, keeping them separate from the rest of the world.  Andre doesn’t have to worry about his colloquium paper, or the lab report he has to finish for Chemistry.  He can just let his gaze settle on Braden’s eyes, the freckles across the bridge of his nose, the notch of his throat above the collar of his v-neck shirt, the shape of his shoulders outlined by the streetlight.

“Thanks,” Andre replies at last, listing towards Braden.

Suddenly Braden is much closer, his hand on Andre’s forearm, his face a couple inches away, and it’s so unexpected that Andre flinches back.  Braden lets go immediately and takes a step back.

“I’m sorry,” Braden says, disappointment clear in his voice.  “I thought – but I know we’re not really – “

“I haven’t kissed anyone before,” Andre blurts out.

“Oh.”

“And I like you – I mean, I don’t know much about you, but I’ve been seeing you around the quad and everything since last year, and you’re – I mean, you know how you look, and there was a _plan—_ ”

“Okay?”

“I’m sorry,” Andre says sadly.  “I’ve ruined the moment, haven’t I?”

“I’ve been seeing you around campus, too,” Braden says finally.  “And, I mean, I did really want to take creative non-fiction, but having you in class, too was definitely a perk.”

“But I’m—”

“You’re what?”

“You’re a senior, aren’t you?” Andre asks.

“Yeah?”

“You’re – older than me, and smarter, and you’ll graduate and meet someone else and you won’t think I’m _anything_ anymore, compared to everyone else.”

“I’m not promising you forever, or anything,” Braden replies, his voice a lot kinder than his words sound.  “We’re still students.  Sometimes college relationships work out, and sometimes they don’t.  If you want to try, then so do I.  I’d love to try with you.”

Andre opens his mouth to respond, and then pauses, and closes it again.

“Maybe you need to figure yourself out, first,” Braden says quietly.  “I know what it’s like, your second year here, when everything starts opening up around you.”

“Can you still kiss me?” Andre asks quickly.  “Just once?”

Braden’s right in front of him again, cupping Andre’s cheeks in one hand and leaning in to brush his lips against Andre’s.  Andre leans into him, kisses him back, savoring the feel of Braden’s beard against his skin, just a little scratchy and adding a whole other layer to everything.

Braden pulls back a hair, his breath warm on Andre’s suddenly cold lips.  “I can’t promise I’ll wait for you,” Braden says.  “But let me know when you’re ready.  If you’re ready.”

“I will,” Andre replies, his eyes focused on Braden’s lips.  “Can we still…?”

“We can still meet up for coffee,” Braden tells him.  “I – if we’re not, I can’t—”

Andre nods quickly.  “Okay.  Okay, that’s good.”

“I still want to get to know you,” Braden says softly.  “More than I can just sitting next to you in class.”

“Me too,” Andre replies and, before he can chicken out, kisses him gently on the cheek.  “I’ll see you in class tomorrow?”

Braden has a soft, warm look in his eyes as he nods, his hand on his cheek where Andre had kissed him like he wants to hold in the warmth, the feeling.

Andre turns and – flees, is probably the right word for it.  He walks quickly across the quad, down Massachusetts Ave and he doesn’t slow down until he gets into his apartment.

 

.oOo.

 

They still grab coffee and talk about their colloquium papers, and about their creative non-fiction assignments.  Braden tells Andre about his thesis, and how the whole process works.  Andre tells him about when Mike tackled Tom into the couch.

They go to TDR for dinner, and Andre swallows down the urge to tell Braden about the time he and Tom sat here and talked about Braden until he sat right behind them.  Braden talks about his favorite things they used to serve here and don’t anymore, and his mom’s cooking.  Andre has to explain some of the Swedish dishes his mom always made that he misses, here.

Tom and Mike watch him come home every time with – not pity, but _something_.  Andre isn’t sure if his situation is worth pitying.

He still – he still wants Braden, in almost every way you can want a person.  He wants to hear more about his thesis and the book he wants to write as soon as he has the time.  He wants to hear about Braden’s family, and his hometown.  He wants to feel Braden’s lips against his again, and more, too.

He thinks about it, sometimes, when Nate is coming back late from studying or dinner with friends and Andre has the room to himself.  He’s never really had the urge to get off thinking about someone, but he thinks now he understands it.

He can remember the feel of Braden’s beard on his skin like it’s still there, and it’s easy – too easy, maybe – to imagine it on his neck, his chest, or…

But he’s happy, now, just spending time with Braden.  Getting to see that soft, fond look on Braden’s face when Andre talks about his best friend from high school.

He could be happier, though.

He’s – tentative, maybe, about bringing it up again.  He thinks Braden is still available, still into him, still… waiting, even though he said he wouldn’t.

He sits closer to him when they squeeze into a booth at the Dav.  He makes an effort to touch him, on the arm, on the shoulder, knock his knees into Braden’s under the table.

 

.oOo.

 

Andre can’t sleep.  He needs to rest up, with the colloquium, but he can’t _sleep_.  Nate is snoring across the room, and he’d like to blame the noise for his sleeplessness, but he can’t.

He tried drinking tea, listening to calming music, just lying there with his eyes closed.

His alarm clock blinks out _1:04_ at him.  Sighing, he grabs for his phone; no one’s posted anything on Instagram, there’s nothing new on Facebook.

Andre does the only thing he can think of, then.  He opens up his messaging and sends a text to Braden, to the number Braden had given him after their third meeting and Andre had barely used.

_Can’t sleep.  You up?_

Andre taps his phone against his chin, and it startles him when it vibrates almost immediately.

_Yeah.  Can’t sleep either._

_You think my paper’s good, right?_

Andre doesn’t know why he sent that.  He knows his paper is good.  He’s had enough meetings with Nicklas that he knows it’s good.  He’s spent enough time going over the paper with Braden, and Mike and Nate and even Tom, that he knows it’s good.

 _It’s amazing.  All you have to do is read it, just like we practiced_.

Andre bites his lip.

_And you’re still coming to my session right?_

_As long as you’re still coming to mine._

_Of course I am._

Braden doesn’t reply for a little bit.  Andre wants, desperately, to keep talking to him.  He feels it in his chest, squeezed in next to his heart and his lungs, some primal need to have Braden’s voice in his ear.

Before he can really think it through, he hits ‘call.’

“Andre,” Braden says when he picks up, his voice just as soft and warm as it is in person.

“Hi,” Andre whispers.

“You doing all right?”

“I’m scared,” Andre blurts out.

“Your presentation is going to be fine, Andre.  It’ll be more than fine.”

“Not about that.  I mean, I am scared about that, but I’m talking myself through it.”

“What’s scaring you, Andre?”

And isn’t that the question?

When he’d been trying to find out who Braden was for _months_ , and he finally met him and went out for coffee with him and Braden _kissed him_ , all he could do was scare himself out of it and run away.

“I don’t want you to get tired of me,” Andre says at last.  “I’m not that interesting.  You’re a lot more interesting than I am.  Almost everyone is.  I’m just…”

“Andre,” Braden cuts in.  “I can’t raise your self-esteem.  I could lie here and tell you everything I think is amazing about you, but it’s something you have to do yourself.  I can help – I’ve been trying to help – but—”

“I’m not asking you to,” Andre replies.  “I’ve been – like you said, figuring myself out.  I’m— I like you, Braden, and even if I’m not sure why you’d like me, I trust you enough that you’re being honest when you say you do.”

It’s something that’s easier to say in the dead of night, whisper into his cell-phone as he stares at the shadowed wall in front of him.

“I mean,” Andre continues, “I trusted you with my colloquium paper.”

Braden laughs into the phone; Andre closes his eyes.

“Tell me again,” Braden says, “During the day, when you’re not tired and anxious, okay?”

“Okay,” Andre whispers.  “Only if you’ll tell me, too.”

“It’s a deal.”

They both breath into the phone for a minute, neither of them saying anything.

“Goodnight,” Braden finally murmurs.

“Goodnight,” Andre replies, and even after the call disconnects, he lies there with it to his ear until he falls asleep.

 

.oOo.

 

Andre was glad that Mike, Tom, and Nate all wanted to support him by coming to the colloquium, but he also kind of wished he hadn’t because he was about to vomit all over the table.

Even after his paper was done, and people actually _clapped_ , he had to sit up there at the front table waiting for the question part of the session.

Oh my god, he was going to vomit.

The only thing keeping him steady was the quiet smile Braden gifted him with whenever Andre glanced in his direction.

Braden even threw him a question, one Andre knew the answer to because it came up the last time they were discussing their papers, and Andre didn’t even stumble over his answer and Nicklas looked so _proud_.

And then he could step shakily back into the crowd for the 10 minute break before the next session.

Mike, Tom, and Nate swarm him immediately, slapping him on the back and handing him a bottle of water he drains in seconds.

“Thanks, guys,” he gasps out as he finished the bottle of water.  “Thanks for coming.”

“Of course we came,” Mike replies, offering him a cookie, which Andre turns down.  “Wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

Andre’s about to reply, but then Braden appears a couple of steps away, and Andre can’t _not_ go up to him, squeezing past a couple people on his way.

“Braden,” he says, as soon as he’s standing right in front of him.

“See?” Braden tells him, smiling.  “You were all over that presentation.  I knew you could do it.”

Andre beams up at him, and reaches out for Braden’s hand as he says, “I’m still not sure why you like me so much, but I trust you when you say you do.”

Braden smiles softly at him, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“I like you,” Braden tells him.

“I like you, too,” Andre replies.  “I’m not scared of it anymore.”

Braden leans in, then, and tugs on Andre’s hand so he moves closer, and Braden kisses him.  Andre sinks into it – he doesn’t run, doesn’t even have the urge to pull back or hesitate.  He curls his hand around the back of Braden’s neck, just as Braden rubs his thumb over the back of Andre’s hand.

They break apart after a minute – or two, maybe, Andre can’t really be sure – and all he can see is the smile on Andre’s lips, and the glimmer in his eye that means that he’s done waiting.


End file.
